You Wanted This
by mmmmmaple
Summary: Lars asks Matthew to dress up. Challenge accepted.


_Warnings: sexy times.  
_

_Pair: Netherlands&Canada_

_Disclaimer: No ownership of Hetalia or Timmys or really anything to do with this story._

_Notes: I don't really think too much about cross-dressing. But one day, I was reading a book about Mucha and I thought of a kind of cute cross-dressy scenario. And then I wrote this. So, what happened there? Completely different plot. And it's written from Netherlands' point of view - nothing goes according to plan. So yeah, basic what-the-fuckery.  
_

_It was my birthday so I gift the internet with porn. Not even especially good porn, but hilarious fun to write! Hope I come up with a better title soon. Enjoy~!  
_

_Names: Belle = Belgium, Lux = Luxembourg (fuck yeah no sense of names), Lars = Netherlands._

* * *

**You Wanted This**

* * *

"Fine," he says at length and tangles their fingers together. "But if we do this, we do it my way."

"Mmm."

* * *

Two weeks later, Lars receives a text that makes him completely lose focus.

"...don't you think, big brother?" Belle's melodic voice permeates his racing thoughts.

"Hm?" He forces focus back to the books he had been ordering alphabetically.

A charming smile follows and Belle leans forward excitedly and her nimble fingers almost pry loose the phone. Lars is saved by his height and holds it far above her reach as she throws him her most adorable pout. "Please?"

"No way," he says, perhaps too sharply, but Belle is not deterred by his tone. He relents and tries to smile as he slips the phone back into his pocket.

"Is it Matthew?"

Lars coughs and starts on the 'R's. Belle practically squirms with excitement next to him.

"He's so sweet," she murmurs and twists a golden lock in her delicate fingers. He can feel her keen gaze boring into his shoulder and offers her a noncommittal grunt; Lars knows he has lost when Belle lets out a quiet giggle.

"You know, the first time we met, he was just a little boy," she says dreamily. "I was looking at the stars when he sat down next to me and asked me which one was my favourite. I turned to the moon and told him 'that one', and he put on the most determined face. He was so cute and so earnest that I almost laughed as he reached a hand toward the sky and turned to me and said: 'If I could, I would give it to you'."

Lars's jaw twitches and he rolls his eyes as he slides a book into place. Matthew _would_ bring her the whole night sky if she asked for it. He sighs and slides his fingers absently along the ridges of a book's spine; he has long given up on being frustrated that the thought doesn't make him jealous, rather, it only endears the Canadian more.

"Too much time around Francis," he suggests.

"Non, I do not think so, big brother! He just wanted to make me happy, and it was so darling. He's still so cute, even if he has ruined French," she chirps with a wink.

Lars waits until Belle leaves to prepare lunch and pulls out his phone, the practiced motion hindered by shaking hands. A new message awaits his hungry eyes.

_2:00 on the 14th. Tim Horton's by my house. You know the one._

The second message makes his fingers clench so tightly that he almost breaks the phone.

_You can look, but don't touch._

* * *

He curses the dark circles under his eyes; his face has fallen victim to a long night of creative imaginings. Lars touches his freshly-shaven face and takes solace in the smell of his aftershave - at least he _smells_ decent. As his practiced digits slide through his hair, excitement takes second-place to the task of styling, but even so, he can't help but consider the possibilities.

The way he would suggestively lick the icing off a donut and cross his legs bare legs demurely under the table, absently pulling down the short skirt...

Lars looks down and sighs at the tireless bulge in his pants. "Again?"

The first four or five times over the course of the night had been tantalizing but each erection afterwards bordered on the ridiculous. He ignores the pressing need between his legs and heads for the closet. As he pulls out a pair of perfectly-folded dark jeans, a new fantasy floats unbidden into his mind.

_Hopelessly late, Matthew rushes in, hair in disarray as he clutches at a stack of papers. He sets the bundle down at the cash register and smooths his skirt. "Late for class!" he mutters and adjusts his glasses that have just slipped down his nose, bending over just enough to get a better angle to read the menu... giving Lars a perfect view of his shapely backside in the navy skirt._

_"Miss?" the clerk asks expectantly._

_"Oh, um," he stammers and fumbles absently in the pockets of his white blazer. "Sorry, um, a double-double, please? A large one? Er, maybe a bagel, too. Cinnamon-raisin, lots of cream cheese please... shoot..."_

_And Lars folds his paper and stands up, just as Matthew's eyes widen with embarrassment. "I left - darn it! I'll be right back - "_

_"Don't worry about it," he says, pulling out his wallet as Matthew shoots him a look of eternal gratitude just as his stomach grumbles._

_"Oh, no, no, really, I couldn't!"_

_"You could," he intones and passes the change over, getting just close enough to Matthew to smell the citrus perfume. "Miss...?"_

"Oh, come on," he grumbles as he pulls a striped polo carefully over his hair. He grabs absently for Matthew's favourite navy scarf and gives his reflection a solid glare as takes one last glance before he leaves.

* * *

Lars whips out his sunglasses as soon as he arrives. The sunlight is brilliant and the warmth makes him glad that he didn't wear an undershirt. Well, that, and the fact that if one were to look when he just happened to stretch, one would be able to just see his tanned muscles and the band of his boxers as the shirt rose slightly... but this is just a working hypothesis. It isn't as though he has checked and then double-checked, just to be sure.

Air conditioning is a welcome relief as he steps into the coffee shop. His senses are instantly overwhelmed by the distinctive scent of donuts and coffee and the noisy chattering of the elderly and the young alike. He scans the seating for any sign of the familiar Canadian, but is met with no-one watching or waiting, so he buys a box of timbits and slides into a chair. How very like Matthew to be late. Lars slips off his sunglasses and looks over at the table next to him and sees it covered in homework, a calculus textbook flung open and a young girl fastidiously scrawling down answers. He smiles, wondering how, exactly, she planned on getting anything done in a noisy place like this as he sees the girl slide thick-framed red glasses up her nose.

_Glasses_. And the delightful blonde bob of her hair -

She snaps the book shut with an air of frustration and throws her pen on the table with a huff. The girl glares at the notes vindictively before she looks up, and as hazy violet eyes meet Lars's own, his heart stops; Matthew is perfect.

A little white blouse with ruffles on the chest is tucked into a pair of high-waisted polka-dotted shorts, under which he wears tights and pink flats. Just the slightest blush on his cheeks and the way his shoulders slope to lessen his height... Lars's heart hammers in his chest as he realizes that Matthew is taking full advantage of one of his biggest weaknesses: young girls.

"Sorry," Matthew blinks several times. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to startle you."

Lars can barely form words in any language as he leans back in the chair, carefully crossing one leg over the other. "No, no, it's fine."

"I just..." Matthew begins and gestures helplessly at his notes, slumping, exhausted. "Homework, you know? I've never been great with numbers."

"I can help," he offers instantly, dimly aware of how thick his accent has grown with excitement.

"Oh, wow, you have a really interesting accent," Matthew comments, leaning forward, eyes piqued with interest. "If - if you don't mind, where are you from?"

"Netherlands," Lars responds hoarsely as he tries not to imagine himself pulling down the silky shorts and tights and bending the blonde over the table, face planted in the 'homework', moaning his name. Because he's in a coffee shop - but that fact starts to seem less and less relevant as he watches Matthew fret with the ruffles on his top and gnaw at a pouty lower lip.

"Would you mind?" comes the hesitant query. "I'm stuck on this problem. It's just that finals are coming up soon and... I'm just not ready."

Lars shakes his head and is at the Canadian's side in a moment, only to wish he wasn't because Matthew is wearing some sort of fruity, girlish perfume and he wants nothing more than to have the blonde on his stockinged knees just begging for him. Blinking, he stares down Matthew's elegant hands and past the alternating pink and orange nail polish and to the problematic question.

He spams involuntarily and hopes Matthew hasn't heard him gasp.

_#69. _

The obvious little minx.

A chime emanates from Matthew's plaid schoolbag and he turns around, mere inches from Lars's face. He smiles apologetically before shoving the notes into the backpack and stands up quickly. "Thanks for the offer! I've got soccer in half an hour and I've gotta get ready. See you later!"

And just like that, he is gone, leaving Lars with a box of uneaten donut holes and the worst hard-on he's had in more than a century.

* * *

Summer is a busy time for a nation, so it is of little surprise to Lars when he had not heard from Matthew in over a month. He watches impassively as the lithe blonde nation slips in, more than three hours late for the London World Meeting. No sooner is Matthew seated than Lars sends him a text under the table.

_It's been a few years since you've been this late._

He watches with a small measure of pride as Matthew squirms and fishes his phone out of his pocket. The blonde smooths his tie and a small smile appears on his face. He looks up and catches Lars's eye with a look of halfhearted exasperation.

_Yeah. Well you'd be late, too, if your bear ate ALL OF YOUR PANTS._

Lars smirks. _Bar?_

Matthew flashes a small thumbs-up. _You read my mind._

He looks back over to watch as a flicker passes across the Canadian's face. _What?_ he texts while wishing that smoking was still allowed in meetings.

The message doesn't come right away, but when it does, Lars is suddenly aware that eight o'clock can't come soon enough.

_Same rules as before. 8?_

He coughs and earns a semi-curious look from Austria, who has been fastidiously ignoring his texting throughout the exchange. _8._

He imagines the _And then I will fuck you so hard that you won't walk for a week_ is implied, so he relaxes as much as he can and wills the time to pass.

When the meeting is finally adjourned in the early evening, Lars makes his way up to his hotel room and gives the 'No Smoking' sign the middle finger as he proceeds to light his pipe and relax on the bed. Relief can't come soon enough; he slowly strokes himself through his boxers as he remembers the particular, fruity scent. He thinks of how disheveled Matthew had looked as he came into the meeting and smiles languidly as he takes a long draw from his pipe. Watching the smoke as it plumes from his mouth, he pushes his boxers down and wills himself to take his time. Lars focuses on how amazingly bold his lover could be; Matthew, shy and quiet Matthew, blatantly cross-dressing - around other nations - around his own family, no less. The thrill of adrenaline rushes through his veins and he pumps himself accordingly as he imagines the Canadian trembling with anticipation only a few floors below as he pulls out a pair of girly shoes from his duffel bag.

Maybe the blonde can't wait. Maybe he's touching himself at the same time. No, he _must_ be touching himself (the Dutch nation thinks as his head falls back against the pillow and his breath shakes) because he knows exactly how much Lars wants him.

"_Verdomme _Matt," he growls quietly as the sensation overwhelms him.

By the time eight o'clock has rolled around, Lars has orgasmed, showered, orgasmed shortly after getting out of the shower, showered a second time, only to have found himself gasping, collapsed against the cold tile and watching his third emission swirl down the drain. He has pulled himself into some semblance of order and decides to take the elevator down to the lobby.

Ignoring the swarm and loudness of the other nations, Lars approaches the bar and briefly considers a beer before his eyes alight on something more tempting for the evening. He motions to a bottle of Beefeaters. "Neat." The bartender doesn't bat an eye and pours the drink for the surly-looking nation.

"Thanks," he says and takes a sip, sliding a bill over the counter.

Lars relaxes into his seat as the minutes slowly pass and he is grateful that the bar doesn't have any regular humans within (considering as it must be at maximum capacity with the nations alone). Belle sashays over, giggling into a pint of beer, to make sure Big Brother is having a good time. Lars informs her that he is and she plants a kiss on his cheek before flitting away to join her own group of friends.

A familiar total hero voice reaches over the din and garners Lars's attention, though he does not look up from his drink. "Woah, Arthur, dude. I thought British chicks're supposed to have bad teeth and be super fugly - " Alfred is quickly, if momentarily, silenced by taking what Lars assumes is a pint of Guiness to the face. The American recovers, snickering, before Francis cuts him off dreamily.

"Clearly, she is Parisienne, _n'est-ce pas ma belle_?"

"_Non_," comes a perfectly crisp French accent accompanied by a slight laugh. "_Désolé, cheri_."

"You see, frog, Britain's ladies are very becoming!"

"_Sei bellissima_!"

And Lars doesn't think anything more of it as he gazes at the liquors that line the shelf. He is exhausted but still on edge, and the cool rim of the glass rests against his lips as he looks over. At first, it's a floral yet earthy scent that stops him. Then he realizes that other nations are staring and he frowns. Only as someone slides into the barstool next to him does his breath catch in his throat.

"Seriously? _Lars_?" Francis and Arthur chorus at the same time.

Then the world falls silent as he looks over to see a blonde goddess on the edge of her seat, placing her leather clutch on the bar. The bartender is present almost too quickly and she leans forward. "Pick something you think suits me," she murmurs and while she watches the bartender, Lars watches her.

With a delicate flick of the wrist, she pushes back voluminous golden curls. Her hair stops at her waist, _such a slender waist_, perfectly fitted in a demure black dress. She toys with a long, single string of pearls as she watches the bartender shake her a martini and garnish it with a lemon twist and hand it to her. She reaches for her clutch but he shakes his head at her and she smiles.

She takes a sip just as Lars wonders, somewhat breathless, if this is - but, no, not with black pumps, ankles crossed and knees together. No, she's too self-assured, too _feminine._

She thanks the bartender, perfect brows arched in gratitude over her violet eyes.

And that does it.

Matthew turns to face Lars and tilts his head slightly, causing a cascade of curls across his chest. He smiles softly and rests an arm on the bar, and everything down to the soft berry-coloured stain on his lips is perfect.

"You looked lonely," he offers in a quiet, sensuous voice that goes straight to Lars's groin.

"Yeah, Lars! _Get some_!" Accompanied by a wolf whistle, Lars looks over to shoot a glare at his wild-haired cousin who is sloshing beer on an irritated Norwegian.

"Friends of yours?" Matthew asks and takes a casual sip.

Lars is torn between _I can't even wait until we're in my room, I'm going to have you in the elevator_ and _how do you do it, how are you so beautiful?_. He settles on: "I'd much rather talk about you, not them."

"What did you want to know?" Matthew's stunning eyes are even more noticeable without his glasses. And just as Lars is considering this with a slightly knowing smirk, the gaze shifts curiously over his shoulder.

"So," comes a breathy drawl. Lars groans as an arm lands over his shoulder and he looks down to see a familiar Hublot watch. "Forgotten about Matthew so soon?"

"Lux," Lars intones harshly. "Not the time."

"Sorry, miss, but my brother only likes underaged girls and his boyfriend."

A playful smile tugs at Matthew's pink lips and his eyebrow quirks. "How interesting."

"Just a friendly warning. I'm surprised you haven't noticed Francis, he's probably more your type. Well, see you, I suppose."

Lars rubs his forehead, his fingers irritably brushing against the scar. He can feel the dark blush on his cheeks and quickly downs his drink before he can look at Matthew again. When he does, he notices a look of consternation on the heart-shaped face. "Don't worry, I'm sure Francis would leave you alone if you weren't interested," he suggests instinctively.

Matthew's eyes brighten, although he still looks somewhat uncomfortable. "I noticed him when I came in," he practically whispers. "He, ah, he looks like my older brother."

Lars smiles appreciatively and just barely resists the urge to stroke Matthew's thigh. Comfortingly, of course. The blonde breaks the silence with an innocent tone. "You have a boyfriend?"

Lars coughs, knowing there is a blush on his cheeks. "I guess it really isn't a secret around here."

He wishes he could joke with his lover. He wishes he didn't feel so turned on by seeing him like this in public. He wishes Matthew would lean over, kiss him, and leave an obscene trail of lipstick along his collar. And the Canadian seems to pick up on the fact but seems to actually be enjoying the situation. He bats his eyelashes as if it were not on purpose and Lars can read him like a book: _you wanted this_, the blonde challenges silently.

Suddenly, Lars smiles. He had asked for this, after all. He might as well enjoy it. "Would you like me to tell you about him?" he asks. Panic and desire pass through Matthew's eyes and they both know he's hooked.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, considering the circumstances."

"Oh?" He can't help the smirk. "I have the feeling you'd like him."

"O-okay."

"He's right over there," he intones and points at Alfred, currently trying to convince someone to change the music to something more American. Violet eyes narrow dangerously as Matthew snaps back around.

"_Handsome_," comes the venomous response. Lars twitches and Matthew jumps on the opportunity; he turns around and casts a longing look at his twin. "He could be so much _fun_."

His plan is shot down in flames but he won't let it get to him, _no_, regardless of the way his fingers dig into his own arm. "Good thing I'm not jealous."

"Jealous? Why you were just telling me about your boyfriend only a moment ago." Matthew smiles a cold smile and casts his gaze around the room. His eyes light up and he positively beams.

Lars follows his line of vision and his mood plummets instantly; Antonio is grinning at something Francis has said. He hastily orders another drink and swallows it all in one mouthful as Matthew surreptitiously slides a bill across the counter. "They say Spain is the country of passion," comes the dreamy voice. "I'm sure _he_ wouldn't mind teaching me a thing or two."

The glass shatters in Lars's hand as if to punctuate the end of the statement. Matthew looks over and despite his concern, he wears a smile that is far too cocky for someone so delicate.

"Sorry," Lars says gruffly. "It's just a thing. Can't control it."

"You're bleeding."

"Don't even feel it."

"I believe you."

A long pause marks the stalemate and Matthew finishes his drink slowly, a healthy glow illuminating his cheeks.

"So, your boyfriend," he says finally and Lars's heart softens because he knows he has hit a nerve.

"Mhm?" He leans closer.

"He's not really the guy you pointed at earlier?"

A quick glance of Alfred earns a small groan; the American is loudly debating the pros and cons of first-person zombie shooter games with Kiku. "Not at all."

"Good."

"For some reason, people get them confused a lot. I can't imagine why. Matt has some weird friends, but that's probably part of the reason why I like him. He's pretty laid back most of the time, and he can take anything anyone can throw at him."

A disconcerting lack of awkwardness ensues as Matthew fidgets with his extensions and his cheeks flush with happiness and embarrassment. It's at that moment that Lars decides he doesn't give a damn about whether or not his lover is in a dress with long hair and a martini or in his boxers watching a hockey game with a beer.

"He sounds nice," the Canadian admits quietly.

Lars reaches out to touch Matthew but stops, arm halfway extended as he remembers the rules. _Look, but don't touch_. He retracts his arm and fights the glare off his face as he relaxes against his seat. "He is nice."

Something in his tone must have given him away, because Matthew is eying him with the sort of poorly-hidden hunger that always elicits his own assertiveness. He knows how well Matthew likes his eyes - he has told him as much, many times - so he blinks slowly and settles back even further. And sure enough, he is rewarded with a far-off look on Matthew's face and he watches with amusement as the Canadian tries to bring himself back to reality.

"S-sorry... Tell me more."

"You'll have to be more specific."

"Ah," the blonde pauses, blinks, then looks Lars squarely in the eye. "I'm curious about your sex life."

He looks the blonde over from head to toe and takes his time, watching as Matthew squirms ever so slightly. "Like I said."

A small gasp. "How...what do you want from him?"

Lars sends him a reproving stare.

"I mean - I - if he were here," Matthew manages breathily, "and you were in the mood - _if_ you were, that is - what would you do?"

"If he were sitting where you are now?" A wide-eyed nod urges Lars to continue. "I'd tell him to touch me."

"...where?"

Lars glances pointedly down to his own lap. "Oh, _anywhere_. But he wouldn't be obvious about it - we both kind of get off on touching in public." He hesitates longingly at the furious pink cheeks and at the way Matthew seems to be fighting for air. "Then I'd escort him out of here, but without I'd do it without _touching_ him because that would be _agonizing_."

The blonde has the grace to look guilty for a moment. "And then?"

"We would make our way through the lobby to the elevator. But for all his charms and insistence, I wouldn't let him undo my pants and let his hot little mouth on me. Because the more he begs for it, the more he looks like a complete - " Lars leans forward until his face is met with an abundance of curls and he whispers hot against Matthew's ear - "_sletje_."

The shiver and quickly stifled gasp forcibly remind him of how hard he is. _Again_. The blonde reaches dangerously close to Lars, fumbling for his clutch and he pulls away just in time to watch Matthew pull out his phone. His face alights with the eerie blueish glow and in seconds, there is a buzz against his leg and Lars bites his cheek at the vibration. He pulls out his phone with a questioning glance -

_Please._

Matthew has broken first and the thought thrills him; he smirks and feels the heated gaze warm his blood. "Then I would take him back to my room. I would take my time, too, and get him to slowly undress for me. He's the hottest little thing, and there's just something about the way his whole face lights up when he finally sees how much I want to throw him on the bed and fuck the - "

"Oh God." The words slip out and a hand flies to his mouth. Matthew seems stuck in place, but quickly collects himself just enough. A pair of violet eyes turn to Lars and he feels the need escaping from his blonde lover like heat on a cold day.

_Matt? _he texts.

"I can't take this anymore," Matthew whispers. In seconds, he grabs his clutch and his coat and he escapes. Lars briefly wonders if he has pushed too far.

_Room 1008. _

His eyes light up and the fire rekindles in his stomach immediately.

_1/2 hour_. He types back, then adds: _I want you ready for me._

* * *

At 9:02 exactly, Lars gets off the elevator, wondering about how he will find Matthew. The door is unlocked, pried an inch open, and Lars frowns.

"Matt," he says gruffly, dropping all pretense. "Some drunk nation could just stumble in here and - "

Matthew's entire body gleams in the faint lamplight and his hair, free of extensions, clings to his face as his whole body sways lightly. Gasping for breath has never sounded sexier. Then, Lars realizes what the blonde is actually doing and goes from concerned to turned on in less than a heartbeat.

Matthew doesn't hear him come in. He is on all fours on the bed, his head turned to the side against the covers with one hand gripping the bedspread and the other arm reaches down the length of his body, his hand lost in the depths of his perfectly round ass.

"_Hah_ - hurry up - _mmm_ - Lars," come the breathy moans and the nation in question almost trips over a pair of hastily-discarded heels.

He had planned on taking his time. He had so desperately wanted to make the Matthew collapse from need panting and moaning his name. But he doesn't have to because his lover has done it all on his own. His heart soars as he hastily undoes his jeans and whips out his full, flushed erection.

Lars stalks to the foot of the bed and waits for the right moment, carefully judging the distance between Matthew and the foot of the bed, otherwise enjoying the view as he slowly pumps his own shaft. Violet eyes are screwed shut, a look of intense concentration on the heart-shaped face. All of Matthew's muscles are taut and the hair of his arms and the back of his neck are raised in telltale desire. His cock looks painfully ready to burst, and on any other occasion Lars would take the time to tease the climax from him, but not today. No, now he waits for the four fingers that stretch and widen and make Matthew's body shiver with need to withdraw, and they do, just enough -

He grabs Matthew roughly by the hips and hauls him backwards, impaling the pliable body against him. He doesn't stop at the repeated cry of his name and hardly notices as Matthew's body all but liquifies against his thrusts, how his fingers scramble for purchase on anything.

The blonde moans harshly into the sheets and in mere moments the tight, silky muscles clench around Lars and he focuses just enough to watch a slick rush coat the bed cover. He has the presence of mind to pull out, if only for a moment, and roll Matthew onto his back, far away from the mess.

His hair is deliciously tousled, his cheeks burning with a pink flush, all traces of makeup gone, leaving just Matthew. Perfect, hazy-eyed, vulnerable Matthew, who smiles a lazy smile upward.

"So it _is_ you, after all," he teases and Lars frowns.

He makes a guttural noise and tangles his fingers in Matthew's hair, including an extra sharp tug at the wayward curl and the blonde's sensitive, post-orgasmic body heaves a full shudder. Matthew tries to stifle an accompanying mewl and bites his lip. Lars pushes both of them fully onto the bed and Matthew wraps his trembling legs around his waist.

Lars wants to pound every ounce of desire he has had pent-up for the past month into the blonde. He wants to convey every second of need, to show Matthew that he didn't get nearly enough release with his own hand; he wants to brutalize the malleable body against the bed and grind into him so savagely that his quiet lover becomes hoarse from screaming, crying, whimpering out his name.

And as he tries to catch up with his breath, Matthew raises his head and connects their burning lips in a kiss. Lars opens his eyes and comes undone at the gentle insistence of a soft mouth.

Matthew squirms below him and a clasps his cock with two warm hands, moving them with deliberate strokes. The sheets wrinkle under Lars's clenched hands, and suddenly Matthew's lips are against his ear, breath hot as he insists, "_let me ride you_."

Lars faces an unfamiliar sensation as he relaxes into his lover's arms and is guided against the bed. Sliding his eyes open reflexively, he takes in the tremble of Matthew's lip as he glides into place. And Lars almost considers protesting but a pair of smouldering, half-lidded eyes silence him.

There is a soft "_mmm-ohh"_ as the flesh of his chest is kneaded in an afterthought; Matthew has no qualms in taking his time each time he pushes downward and slides up, every curve and angle of his body so provocatively on display. The moments he is on top could just as easily be hours.

As his pretty pout widens into a silent moan, a gasp lodges in Lars's throat and he instinctively catches Matthew as he arches forward and falls onto his forearms. Tendrils of hair cling to his cheeks and Lars curses aloud because Matthew's fierce blush and the heavy breathing make him want to _claim_ the Canadian - to hold him until time ends and other such idyllic absurdities.

Instead of waxing poetic, he raises his knees and notes the delectably straining muscles in Matthew's spent body. Lars wraps his arms around the quivering blonde and pulls him to his chest. He wants to reassure, to be grounding, so he grasps Matthew firmly as he plunges back into the velvety smoothness. At a muffled, delirious moan and the bruising pressure of fingertips against his skin, Lars smirks and presses a kiss to the crown of his head, striking repeatedly, strong, hard, and fast. He will be everything Matthew needs to come a second time, and he _will_ last - he steels himself against the impending rush - he _will last until Matthew comes again_.

The Canadian's words are incoherent save for a breathy mantra of "_Lars - oh, Lars"_ and it isn't until he feels a hot rush against his stomach and muscles tense sharply against his cock that Lars comes, a groan ripping from his throat. He rocks against Matthew, crushing the seemingly boneless body against his own, whispering to him nonsensically in Dutch.

It takes several long minutes for their breathing to steady, for their heartbeats to slow, and all the while Lars runs his shaking hands through Matthew's hair and rubs a circle on his lower back until the tousle-haired nation breaks loose with slothlike reflexes.

"So," Matthew rolls onto his side and fixes Lars with a concerned look; and he'll be damned and fervently deny it, but the self-consciousness that is written all over the spent body and glowing face makes his heart melt. Matthew lightly traces the line of Lars's jaw and glides over the scar. "Was I good? I wasn't sure. I thought maybe... maybe you'd want to come in and see me still dressed up. But I just - I couldn't." His voice softens and he stares at the covers blankly, "I just couldn't."

"Fuck, look at me Matthew." It takes several tries for the violet gaze to finally meet his own, and when it does, Lars stares hard. "You make a freakishly beautiful woman and a very sexy little girl." The slight look of concern and amusement on the Canadian's face reminds Lars that maybe not everyone shares his views, but he doesn't amend his statement. "But I mean - ah, damn it."

"No, please. _Please_."

Lars grabs Matthews hand and presses it against his lips and, suddenly, staring him in the eye seems a lot harder than it was just a moment ago. So he mumbles against the knuckles and kisses them as a cop-out, but Matthew glares - a very distinctive _pardon me?_ - so he tries again. "It's because it's you."

He tries to ignore the adorable gasp and the way Matthew nuzzles against his shoulder, flushed with gratitude, and he can't help the frustration that someone didn't give this kid enough affection or attention when he was a child or something. He cups Matthew's shoulder and kisses his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, tasting the salt from their endeavors. Matthew curls against him and for the moment, Lars doesn't care about the mess and allows himself to close his eyes and maybe, just maybe, relax into the soft spooning from the sleepy nation at his side.

"No one else," he says almost to himself. "It's just _you_."

* * *

_One of the Italian brothers (maybe both?) pretty much catcall Matt. Lars swears and calls Matt a slut. Hooray._


End file.
